


Where The Hell Would I Be Without You?

by Shy_Creature



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Period Typical Homophobia, Wartime Romance, ill let yall guess who, in This one being gay is Allowed :), nearly every fucking character is in this dont make me tag them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22652503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shy_Creature/pseuds/Shy_Creature
Summary: He chanced a look at Webster, and their eyes met. Webster held his gaze until he snapped out of whatever spell he was under, and started a conversation with Penkala. Liebgott decided not to think about it anymore that night, and finished his drink.You see, Liebgott desperately wanted to hate David Webster. He wanted to actually hate all of those little things he did, he wanted to actually hate those little tidbits of information he’d dispense at random, he wanted to actually hate that he could speak German just as well as he did despite not being raised around it, he wanted to actually hate the fact that the man had somehow snuck Old Spice aftershave into the European theater.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81
Collections: Serverversary (say that 5 times fast)





	1. Chapter 1

Joseph Liebgott was a simple man, or at least he liked to think he was. 

He was a simple man with simple wants and simple interests; he saw a cigarette and he smoked it, he saw beer and he drank it, he saw one pompous and infuriating harvard dandy… well, you know how it goes. 

David Webster was an irritating person, plain and simple. He was arrogant, always flaunting around his fancy education and his family’s money. To make matters worse, the guy seemed to never shut up about either of those topics, always regaling the men with stories from Harvard, his travels, and even vacations taken with his family. 

Though, the most irritating to Liebgott was when Webster just started stating any random fact that came to mind, probably something he’d read in a book at some point. It was those little things that pissed Liebgott off the most, just little bits of information said with such matter-of-factness that made him itch with irritability.

Vincent van Gogh wasn’t even _from_ Nuenen.

It almost amazed him, as no one in Liebgott’s entire life had managed to get so deep under his skin in such a short time, and even fewer had managed to stay there. 

Being the only two men in the company who could speak decent German, they were often paired up by their commanding officers to help to interrogate any German soldiers that the company managed to capture. But even with Liebgott’s admittedly irate attempts to keep it civil, it seemed like even when it came to the few things they had in common, Webster would still find and identify each and every one of Liebgott’s short-comings. 

_“Wo sind das Panzer?”_ Liebgott snarled at the German POW, pointing his gun at the quaking man’s chest. He only meant it as a threat, but even so the German violently shook his head as his eyes flicked frantically around the room. His eyes went from their resident intelligence officer, Lewis Nixon, to Dick Winters, and then Webster before finally settling back on Liebgott.

Webster snorted somewhere over his shoulder, “Something funny, Professor?” Liebgott snapped, whirling around to face him.

“Yeah, you said it wrong, genius. It’s _“Wo_ _sind_ _die Panzer?”, _you used the wrong article.” Webster stated smugly, eyes sparkling with challenge. 

Liebgott couldn’t fucking believe it, “You shittin’ me? Are you really interrupting this interrogation because I used the wrong _article?”_ He knew that his face was probably flushed with embarrassment. How could Liebgott not be mortified? He was being corrected in front of his superiors and a _prisoner_ in the language he grew up speaking. Webster probably found it hilarious.

“What kind of intellectual bullshit- What in the _fuck_ even is an article anyways??” He asked angrily.

Webster just scoffed, “Well if you must know, an article is a word that’s used with a noun to specify its grammatical definiteness, and in German it extends to a numerical scope.”

The silence that followed was deafening, even the prisoner looked confused at Webster’s elaboration.

Now it was his turn to get a little red in the face, “It’s like the words ‘a’ and ‘an’.”

The group of men let out a chorus of “ooohhh”s, finally understanding.

Webster continued to stand his ground, “So, how’s the man supposed to know what you’re saying if you can’t even utilize that basic part of speech?”

Liebgott continued to look at Webster like he was a fucking moron.

“Are you a fucking moron?”

Winters and Nixon just looked at each other and sighed.

Without breaking eye contact with Webster, Liebgott shoved his gun back in the direction of the German soldier, who was now even more confused than before and looking back and forth between the two, “I think he knows damn well what the fuck I’m saying,” He points accusingly at Webster, “You, are just tryin’ to yank my chain aren’t you, Harvard?”

“Corporal-” Winters tries to get the interrogation back on track but is hushed by Nixon, who has an amused look on his face as he watches the pair fight. 

“Wait, wait… I haven’t seen anything this entertaining in _weeks._ ” 

And the other men didn’t do much to prevent the two from making scenes either. Liebgott would even bet they also found it quite funny, the bastards. As a big group of 20-something year olds at war, all the men of Easy company had to entertain themselves was gossip. And it seemed to Liebgott that they never, ever passed up an opportunity to make their fun. 

Bull Randleman in particular, although usually a neutral party in company drama, would always speak up from his permanent spot at Johnny Martin’s side to liken Liebgott and Webster to an old married couple whenever they got into it over stupid things; the most memorable instance of which occurred at a pub during the last time the company had some down time.

“Wait, wait, wait-” interrupted Liebgott, stepping between Webster, Shifty Powers, and George Luz who were in the middle of comparing family recipes at the bar, “Hold on a sec, you put _what_ in your meat loaf?” 

Webster tilted his head back and groaned at Liebgott’s sudden intrusion, “Listen, before you even start, Liebgott, it’s not _our_ recipe it’s _our housekeeper’s-_ ” And before he could even finish, Liebgott starts _wheezing_ into his drink. 

“Your family can’t even cook their own meals?! Oh we are coming back to that later, Harvard,” Liebgott quickly regained his composure, eager to get back to his initial issue, “But back to the meatloaf,” Liebgott leans on Luz and puts his hand against his forehead in a dramatic fainting gesture.

“Web, buddy, please say it isn’t true,” he cries, “Please tell me that you don’t put _celery_ in your _meat loaf!”_ He can barely even finish before he breaks down laughing, the sound contagious enough to make Luz and Shifty start laughing too.

Webster crossed his arms and glared, unamused, “Yeah yeah, laugh it up you guys.” but Liebgott really did keep on laughing just to watch that crossed look on Web’s face deepen before he spoke again, “Hey, I have a question. Have you ever even tried it, Lieb? How do you know it’s bad?” 

Liebgott finally calms down, “Because I got taste buds and a brain, Web! Did you not have home-ec in school?” he paused for a moment to consider this further, “Actually, I take that back. Knowing you, you probably had private tutors or some shit.” Webster just rolled his eyes before stepping closer to him and taking a stand. Liebgott internally applauded his bravery.

“Well I’m _sorry_ that I like a bit more texture in my food and don’t just eat spoonful after spoonful of soggy minced meat!” 

Liebgott also stepped closer, making it so they were nearly nose to nose, “But you can’t just put celery in a meatloaf, you moron. It waters down the whole fuckin’ dish and makes it soggy and that’s-”

“Oh dear _Lord_ ,” Liebgott heard Bull groan loudly somewhere to his left. Glancing over he saw the tall man looking unimpressed, standing by the bar with one arm curled affectionately around an equally (if not more so) unimpressed Martin. As usual. 

“Can y'all just kiss and go to bed already? ‘Cause god _damn_ I think we’re all tired of wondering when the hell y’all two are gonna quit pussy footin’ around here.” He pointed at both of them, “So y’all can either shack up or shut up, I’m afraid those’re the only options y’all got.” He turns to Luz, Shifty, and now Don Malarkey, who had made his way to the bar after overhearing the meatloaf discourse, and gives them both a firm nod, “G’night to you, gentlemen.” he says with an easy smile before taking his leave for the night along with Martin. 

Liebgott stood there with Webster for a second, unmoving and unsure of what to do with Bull’s parting words. They were still standing close and he caught a whiff of Webster’s aftershave; Old Spice. 

Liebgott wondered how in the hell Webster got ahold of Old Spice when there was a war on. But the thought was interrupted when they were pounced on by Skip Muck and Alex Penkala, who’d no doubt followed Malarkey. He chanced a look at Webster, and their eyes met. Webster held his gaze until he snapped out of whatever spell he was under, and started a conversation with Penkala. Liebgott decided not to think about it anymore that night, and finished his drink. 

You see, Liebgott desperately wanted to hate David Webster. He wanted to _actually_ hate all of those little things he did, he wanted to actually hate those little tidbits of information he’d dispense at random, he wanted to actually hate that he could speak German just as well as he did despite not being raised around it, he wanted to actually hate the fact that the man had somehow snuck Old Spice aftershave into the European theater. 

But for some reason, Liebgott just couldn’t seem to get Webster out of his mind. Sure he liked to tease and argue with Webster quite a bit but he would never wish harm upon him.

In fact, ever since they jumped into Normandy he’d find himself worrying about Webster, thinking of him in the odd hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep. 

They weren’t even really that good of friends but Webster had become an annoying but comfortable constant. And it seemed as though no matter Liebgott went, Webster would always be right beside him ready to argue the whole way. Even the war hadn’t done much to change that.

Until somehow it did.

Webster, the idiot, had gotten himself shot in Holland.

“They got me!!” he cried, the bullet having made a clean exit out the other side of his leg. Liebgott, after very quietly confirming with Doc Roe that the wound wasn’t that serious, watched as they carried a sheepish Webster to the truck and took him to the aid station. 

He chuckled to himself, ignoring the strange feeling in his chest before going to find a place to hide his own injury from Winters, no doubt in his mind that Webster would be back and complaining about his grievous injury in no more than two weeks’ time.

But he didn’t see him again. Webster never came back.


	2. Chapter 2

Bastogne was a frozen hell on Earth. From the moment Liebgott arrived, a stone of dread settled in the pit of his stomach and stayed there. Easy company was cut off from the supply chain and surrounded in every sense of the word. There were no planes, no birds, not even the sound of wind blowing through the dark forest made its way to the men of Easy company. For a while, it seemed as if there was nothing left of the world except for snow, trees, and mortar fire that seemed to fall upon them just as constantly as the snow did. 

Then, there was Norman Dike, their new commanding officer who was appointed after Moose Heyliger was wounded by one of his own goddamn men while out on patrol. Dike was, in a word, a coward. Enough so that he’d earned the nickname “Foxhole Norman”, due to his habit of diving for the nearest foxhole everytime a pinecone so much as fell from a tree. The men didn’t trust him and neither did any of the officers, rightfully so in Liebgott’s opinion. One of Easy’s most beloved NCO’s, Carwood Lipton, tried his best to fill the shoes Winters left, shoes that Dike had passed over. But Liebgott saw that Lipton was struggling to keep the men in high spirits while also obeying whatever lazy or pointless order Dike gave to him. Maybe it was just the fact that Easy Company was allergic to poor leadership, maybe it was his temper, but whenever he saw Lipton running himself ragged trying to do Dike’s job, Liebgott found himself on the verge of committing a mutiny.

The problem was: Dike was inexperienced and desperate for respect that he refused to earn. He imposed a rule dictating that the medics not only refrain from sharing foxholes with the other men but each other as well. Upon hearing this, Liebgott’s mind drifted back to mutiny, but a sharp look from Lipton aimed at him, Joe Toye, and Bill Guarnere was enough to make him hold his tongue. For now.

But as the days passed Liebgott could see that being separated from the others was taking its toll on one of their medics, Eugene Roe. Being a medic alienated him from the men enough already, but not being able to spend the little time he had to rest with others was slowly wearing him down. Liebgott wouldn’t have it. He shared his foxhole with the medic whenever possible, not caring if Dike reprimanded him. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was ever around in the first place.

During the quieter days Liebgott often adopted a perch with Roe a little ways back from the tree line, where the medic could sit and rest for a bit while also maintaining a good view of the rest of the men, should something happen. When supplies became thin, he would also accompany him and another medic, Ralph Spina, as they made their rounds to try and drum up morphine. 

Liebgott would talk about the odd jobs he had before the war, and Roe told him all about his childhood home in Louisiana and about the civilian nurses, Renee and Anna, that he’d met at the makeshift aid station in town. So Liebgott and Roe continued like that, and chatted when they could. 

But despite Liebgott’s efforts, times got harder; more men were dying or badly wounded, ammo was running low, and the good Doc started talking less and less. He maintained his perch against the bases of the trees as usual but he was no longer watching over the men. Now, his gaze was always fixed somewhere deep in the forest, and his mind was far away. 

That is, until one Babe Heffron started calling around. 

Liebgott knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box when it came to the softer emotions, but he wasn’t a stranger to tenderness. He knew exactly what it meant when he saw Roe’s eyes soften every time Babe entered his line of sight. It seemed to help him, Liebgott thought, to have someone green and a little naive (like, well, a replacement) to check up on and even nag every now and then. And it certainly didn’t hurt that the kid was fucking adorable.

The next time Roe and Liebgott had time to chat was when they ate, where Liebgott gave the medic a smirk and a side eye, “You got eyes for Babe, huh buddy? Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.”

Roe rolled his eyes and spoke with a knowing smile, “I don’t think you’re really one to talk,” 

Liebgott stilled for a second, head suddenly filled with names of old books and eraser shavings, before blatantly feigning ignorance, “Who?  _ Me? _ You need to get that head checked, Doc?” He huffed a dry laugh and motioned broadly to the men milling around the foxholes that now dotted the forest floor a ways away, “You really think a stunning bachelor like me’s got eyes for any of those mutts out there?” 

Roe hummed and paused for a second, as if considering something, “Liebgott, I think the problem is that there’s a particular mutt that  _ ain’t _ out there.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on a little too long, causing Liebgott to shift uncomfortably under Roe’s piercing but steady gaze. “Alright, alright, lay off already! I don’t got the slightest idea  _ who _ you’re thinking of, Doc. Besides, we’re not even talkin’ about me.” Liebgott huffed and crossed his arms like a little kid. The guy was too sharp for his own good.

His point clearly made, Roe chuckled lowly, “Y’see? I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” he patted Liebgott, who was still pouting, solidly on the back, “And to be honest, you’ll never know unless you try, but I think I’ll let that dog lie. I’ll let you off the hook for now.” 

Liebgott huffed again, watching his breath coming out in a puff of steam, “You’re gonna let me off the hook, huh? Again, this wasn’t even  _ about  _ me,” and so the pair turned their attention back to Babe, who had just tactfully stolen Julian’s helmet and ran. Liebgott watched Roe’s eyes shine as a smile slowly crept onto his face. He decided to let that dog lie too.


	3. Chapter 3

Julian’s death had hit them all hard, but it undoubtedly hit Babe the hardest. Dike, of course, was nowhere to be found in the aftermath. There were no words to offer his men, no answers as to when they could go back and retrieve Julian’s body. Nothing from their own commanding officer. 

Thankfully, Winters frequently came to where Easy had set up camp, so he was there to console the men and spend time with them after what happened. Liebgott really appreciated it. It made him happy to know that Winters still thought of them often enough to go and see them even after being promoted. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he missed Winters, who had been like a big brother to all of them ever since their training days. But he was petty enough to think that Winters would always prefer the company of Easy over all the stiffs over at Battalion CP. 

Liebgott watched as Babe stared off into space, his eyes trained on the line just like they were supposed to be but not really seeing anything. The only thing that would break Babe out of his silent reverie was a rattling, violent cough that the poor kid just couldn’t seem to kick. 

Liebgott thought of Roe; sitting silent and alone in the tree line, staring into the forest with dead eyes. 

He found the medic making his rounds, checking the men for trench foot and panhandling for morphine and bandages as usual. It was good to see that some things just never change.

“Hey Doc!” he called, getting the medic’s attention as he was in the middle of haggling with Frank Perconte, “You seen Babe today?” 

Perconte took this opportunity to escape, throwing some quick excuse about having to help Martin with something behind him as he went.

Roe sighed after him before turning back to Liebgott, eyebrows furrowed with concern after hearing Babe’s name, “Today? Nah I ain’t seen Heffron today. Why? Somethin’ wrong? He okay?” Liebgott held up both hands in a placating gesture.

“Calm down Doc he’s not wounded or anything like that but he’s got a real nasty cough. Been keeping the whole neighborhood up, you know?” He put a comforting hand on Roe’s shoulder, “Just thought maybe it’d be a good idea if you checked up on him, that’s all.”

Roe let out a deep breath and relaxed a little before nodding, “Thanks, Liebgott,” he said, hurrying off in Babe’s direction. Liebgott found himself alone once again as snow started to gently fall. He knelt down and settled back against a tree, like he’d seen Roe do so many times. He lit a cigarette and stared into the woods. He took one of his gloves off and rubbed his face, feeling the overgrown stubble scratch against the palm of his hand. He wondered what Webster would look like after a couple weeks of not shaving, and he chuckled a little bit at the ridiculous images that his mind provided. Liebgott shook his head a little with a small smile, knowing that David Kenyon Webster had probably never missed a shave a day in his life. Putting his glove back on, he leaned further against the tree and closed his eyes for a little bit. 

He let himself think of dark hair and blue eyes shining under the sun in the French countryside, and he wondered if that hospital had enough peace and quiet for someone to get any reading done.

The town of Bastogne had the hell bombed out of it, and their makeshift aid station was gone. According to Roe, the old church had taken multiple direct hits and in the end it simply collapsed in on itself, taking all the wounded men still inside with it. 

“There was just.. Fire. Fire everywhere you looked. Could barely see anything ‘cause everytime you looked up there’d be another explosion.” Roe sighed, still trying to wipe the soot off his face.

“Shit,” Liebgott said, rubbing at his temples to try to soothe his impending headache, “What about those two nurses? Renee and Anna? They got out right?”

Roe exhaled, Liebgott felt that stone in his stomach sink a little bit deeper, “God, Doc, tell me they got out..” After losing all those men, Liebgott was hurting inside. A part of him just needed to know if there was any good in the world left to fight for, and he was scared of the answer.

But instead Roe let out a shaky laugh, “You shoulda seen it, Liebgott, those two girls were draggin’ our men outta that buildin’ all on their own,” He paused to light his very last cigarette, “But Renee.. She went back in for more wounded, that’s when the church got that last hit, and it just.. Crumbled. Think the basement caved in.” Liebgott sighed and closed his eyes, waiting for Roe to continue.

“But it was the damndest thing. There was Anna comin’ out the smoke, wounded man in one arm, Renee in the other. And she was fine, Joe,” his voice cracked a bit as he said it, like he still couldn’t believe it was true. Maybe he couldn’t.

“She was just fine. First thing she did was start huggin’ and kissin’ Anna, then it was back to nursin’ me and everyone else in sight as soon as she could sit up.” 

Liebgott let out the breath he’d been holding, and felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He’d been hearing stories about these two courageous women for weeks, how they’d stayed in Bastogne to set up an aid station after the 101st had been cut off from outside help, how Renee could calm people with just a single touch, how Anna with her extensive medical background traveled all the way from Africa with the hope that she could provide aid and care for the people who so desperately needed it. They were simply miraculous people, and to say that Liebgott was relieved that they were okay was a massive understatement. 

Roe pulled out a blue piece of cloth from his uniform pocket, “This is Renee’s, she used it to keep her hair out the way. Gave it to me to use for bandages with some morphine she’d managed to save from the church.” 

Liebgott examined the pretty fabric, “Wow… She just gave it to you?”

The medic looked up at the sky, “Well, yeah. After I gave her my reserve chute so she could make herself a weddin’ dress. Her and Anna are gettin’ married after the war.” 

There was a low whistle from Liebgott, “Damn, you kept that thing this whole time? Who are you? Welsh?” But Roe just shook his head again, his gaze aimed a ways away at a lone figure huddled in a foxhole. Babe.

“Nah. Don’t know why I kept haulin’ that thing around. I guess it was just in case, but…” he trailed off, watching Babe sneeze and then pathetically paw at his already red nose.

“I don’t think I’ll be needin’ anythin’ like that anyways.” and with that, Roe was gone. Already making his way over to Babe and hunkering down in the foxhole next to him, Dike be damned. Liebgott watched Roe take Renee’s hair-cover and rip it to wrap up a nasty gash on Babe’s hand. Even a blind man could see that soft look on Roe’s face as he dutifully bandaged up the other’s hand, or the way Babe’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas at something the medic said. Liebgott wondered what it was.

He took his time making his way back to his own foxhole. It sat empty on its own ever since Smokey Gordon got wounded bad enough to get a ticket home.

Liebgott wondered why he was here, cold and alone. This forest was getting to him, it was either dead silent or loud enough to burst eardrums. It messed with his head and his heart. He could imagine Webster seeing this place and quoting some poem or book, probably something about the “tragic beauty” of it all.

Liebgott sighed again. He missed having someone to argue with, he missed having someone always chatting away in the background, he just… Missed having  _ Webster _ . 

He thought of Webster, and he wondered where the hell he could be. Sure, they were still cut off but he should’ve been cleared to rejoin them weeks ago, so why hadn’t he?

Was the aid station so great that Webster didn’t even attempt to rejoin Easy? Did he think he was too good to just go AWOL? Did he look down on good men like Toye, Guarnere, Popeye Wynn or Buck Compton, the ones who made that effort to come back sooner after suffering far more grievous injuries than a clean shot through the leg?

Or maybe… something went wrong? Liebgott dismissed the thought almost immediately. David Webster had stupid luck. Hell, he was probably being pampered and tended to all day without a care in the world while Liebgott was here with  _ their _ company, with  _ their _ friends. 

He was here suffering from exposure and poor leadership, forced to watch some of his friends die while others were simply wasting away before his very eyes; and he was angry.

So Liebgott just sat silently, staring up at the sky and letting himself be angry. He watched the last light fade until he nodded off. He dreamt of periwinkle scarves, spring weddings, and Old Spice aftershave.


	4. Chapter 4

Dike’s poor leadership came to an end during the battle of Foy. After Bastogne, the men had lost their pillars of support once when Toye and Guarnere got hit during a mortar storm, resulting in the loss of one leg each. And they lost another shortly after; when Buck finally broke down, not that Liebgott could blame him. God knows the man had both seen and been through a lot, and Liebgott knew very well that those psychological wounds were just as serious as any physical injury. 

Soon after that, and shortly before the battle of Foy, Easy also lost some of the main cores of their morale during a bout of twisted bad luck.

First it was Donald Hoobler, who was going around showing off his new luger to the men after spending nearly the whole war searching for one. Somehow, the damned thing went off in his pocket and hit the artery in his leg. Despite Doc Roe doing his damndest to try and save him, poor Hoob bled out in minutes. His beloved luger was then given to Malarkey. 

But Hoobler’s death was just the beginning. In a nasty bit of irony, Muck and Penkala, two of the Three Merry Mortarmen of Easy, took a direct mortar hit into their foxholes. 

Liebgott remembered that night with unsettling clarity. He recalled how both men were half-deaf, the explosion having burst their eardrums, and delirious from blood loss due to the shrapnel wounds. But they were, amazingly, still conscious and even talking. 

Penkala, the less injured of the two (Liebgott was willing to be money that Skip had thrown himself over him at the last second), actually grabbed Doc Spina by his lapels, demanding to know if Luz had made it to safety. Liebgott would never forget the look on Penkala’s face, his easy-going smile and friendly demeanor was gone like it had never been there. It had been completely replaced with gritted teeth and a primal intensity that he’d only ever seen in wounded animals. It floored Liebgott, how even after taking a direct hit from a mortar, they pushed through that pain to ask if their friend had made it through. 

Malarkey was there in seconds after he heard Luz screaming for a medic. Liebgott was enlisted to help hold them down and Malarkey kept them both calm as the medics administered emergency treatment. But then it was Malarkey’s turn to be held back by Liebgott, after Muck and Penkala were ripped away from him and rushed to the aid station in the back of the truck. He had to hold Malarkey as he yelled after the truck; devastated at not being able to go with them, terrified of the fact that he wouldn’t know whether they would live or die, and already feeling the crushing weight of grief and guilt for not being with them if they did die. So, with both of his best friends taken off the line, Malarkey was left alone.

Liebgott heard from Lipton that the reason the two had been asking after Luz was because they had been trying to get Easy’s resident class clown into the safety of their foxhole when they got hit. Luz had to watch as his two buddies disappeared in a flash of fire, smoke, and snow. Liebgott had noticed immediately that after Muck and Penkala were taken away, Lipton had taken up smoking, and Luz’s jokes were starting to become few and far between.

The whole thing was a vicious blow to Malarkey, Liebgott really felt for him. Losing Toye and Buck had been bad enough, but then to lose Hoobler and his two best friends right after? The whole situation was just messed up. He barely touched his food for days after, and even now Liebgott was pretty sure that he was still in the midst of processing all that hurt. And to add further insult to injury, the poor guy was having to take orders from some spineless schmuck who’s only proficiency was using the field telephone to dial Battalion CP. 

Under Dike, Foy was an absolute bloodbath. Due to the CO’s sheer incompetence and lack of any semblance of combative strategy, Easy company got scattered and were losing men fast. They had reinforcements waiting on the other side of town in the form of Item company, but they somehow lost communications with them. Now, it was only a matter of time before Item company withdrew and the enemy was rapidly closing in. 

Everything around Liebgott was complete chaos. From his position he could see Luz yelling into his radio next Lipton, who was screaming at Dike. Their commanding officer’s expression was filled with terror in the face of Lipton’s rage, and he seemed to be stumbling over himself trying to find something to say. Hell hath no fury like an NCO scorned. 

There was enemy fire raining down seemingly from all angles, and the only orders they had received was to stay where they were and hold their positions. Liebgott looked out from his cover and saw that there were barely any positions left to hold.

But just as it was starting to look like all hope was lost, a figure dashed out from the tree line and headed straight for Dike. It was only once he was closer did Liebgott recognize him as Ronald Speirs, the notoriously terrifying CO who was formerly in charge of Dog company. Liebgott could barely believe his eyes. Sure he’d occasionally seen Speirs on his patrols through the companies when they were in Bastogne, but he personally had never really seen him in action before now. He had a feeling that things were about to get interesting.

The man slid behind cover with Lipton, Luz, and Dike, grabbing the front of Dike’s uniform to get his attention. Of course Liebgott couldn’t hear what Speirs said, but judging from the look on Luz and Lipton’s faces it seemed as if Dike had just been relieved of his post.

Speirs then turned to Lipton, who still wore a look of pure disbelief, and gave him their orders.

Liebgott took a deep breath. Maybe they had a fighting chance after all.

Speirs was damn near a miracle worker. But while he managed to turn the fight around, their numbers were growing thinner by the second and they were still unable to get in touch with Item company, who were conveniently holding their positions on the other side of what seemed to be an entire platoon of German soldiers. 

Liebgott could see Luz, Lipton and Speirs taking cover behind a building. Lipton was sporting a new gash on the side of his face, this one by his ear.

Jesus, hadn’t the man been through enough?

Again he couldn’t hear their discussion, but he assumed that they were probably trying to figure out how to finish this shit show without taking any more casualties. Liebgott was at a loss himself, their radios still couldn’t reach Item company. He looked over at all the German soldiers with their machine guns and tanks occupying the space between them and their reinforcements. There was absolutely no way they could get someone to the other side of that, it’d be suicide.

Someone on the German side must’ve spotted him peeking out from behind, because it was then that an enemy machine gun opened fire, forcing Liebgott back behind his cover. He sat there, immediately trying to forget the fact that he just almost got his head blown off. Those bullets had barely missed him, and just the rush of air accompanying the bullets going past his face was enough to make his cheek sting like he’d been cut. 

Turning his gaze back to Lipton and Speirs, Liebgott starts worrying his lip; hoping and praying that they could figure something out, that somehow they would find some solution that he’d missed because Liebgott couldn’t afford to have it end here. 

He thinks of the very last time he saw Webster. He remembers when he was loaded onto the truck, face flushed pink with embarrassment as he looked down at his bandaged leg. He remembers Webster looking up to meet his eyes before giving him one last dumb smile that was a cross between sheepish and pained. He remembers watching the truck drive away. 

No, Liebgott decided that this would  _ not _ be the end.

Suddenly, Speirs turned to Lipton, put a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a wild-eyed smile. That threw Liebgott off; how could anyone be smiling at a time like that? 

But then Speirs ran, he bolted from the safety of his and Lipton’s cover and made a beeline for the Germans. Lipton was left reaching out, yelling and trying to get to his feet to go after him but enemy fire forced him back behind the building. Lipton caught Liebgott’s attention and gave him the signal to help provide covering fire for Speirs.

As he was shooting, Liebgott once again could not believe what he was seeing. And he was willing to bet that the Germans, who were now watching the toughest son of a bitch the U.S. military had ever seen barreling towards them, couldn’t believe it either. 

He guessed it was confusion; they must’ve thought he was he one of theirs, because at first they didn’t shoot at him. Even when they did finally realize that it was an enemy soldier, they didn’t know what to do. The Germans just looked frantically from him to each other, not knowing whether to open fire and risk hitting one of their own. But Speirs didn’t stop or slow down, he just kept running straight through the enemy. By the time the first German soldier even raised his gun, he was already up and over the wall.

That crazy bastard did it. He’d hooked up with Item Company. The world had stopped for a second; no bullets were fired, no mortars. It was like the Germans were still trying to process what they’d just seen. And to be perfectly honest, so was the rest of Easy Company.

Liebgott chanced a look back over to Lipton. He seemed stunned as he stared at the section of the wall that Speirs had disappeared over, a mix of so many emotions in his eyes that Liebgott couldn’t possibly hope to place them all. 

But there was a big commotion on the German’s side. He saw Lipton’s eyes widen, and a smile slowly spread across his face. Liebgott peeked back over the top of his cover, only to see Speirs sprinting towards them. 

He was coming back, that crazy mothefucker was coming back.

This time the Germans did open fire, but it didn’t matter; the bullets never even grazed his uniform. Speirs had saved them because now not only did Easy company have reinforcements, but they finally,  _ finally _ had a competent CO; even if he was batshit crazy.

And at this point Liebgott was sure that he’d seen enough to deem Speirs legally insane, he’d argue it in court. He found himself letting out a small laugh at the absolute amazement of it all. Just who was this guy? Where in the hell did they find him? 

He watched as Speirs made it all the way back to Lipton, who caught him when he collapsed as soon as he was back behind cover. Lipton instantly sat him up and began looking him over, frantically checking for injuries. Speirs let Lipton do whatever while he tried to catch his breath, a triumphant smile on his face. 

Liebgott watched the scene with awe. He supposed that it didn’t really matter who Speirs was or where he came from, all that mattered was that he was here now and he was giving Lipton the respect he deserved. 


	5. Chapter 5

After Foy, Easy company took Noville, and after that they took Rachamps, where Liebgott and the rest of Easy company found sanctuary in a convent. Inside it was warm, dry, safe, and the nuns even gave them warm meals to eat. Everywhere Liebgott looked there were lit candles that gave everything around them a warm glow. The atmosphere of the entire building just radiated peace, it felt like heaven.

They deserved this rest. So many men died, and they were mostly replacements so not really men so much as they were boys.

They had a lot of wounded too, Perconte was shipped off to the aid station after getting shot in the ass, poor guy.

So Liebgott took this time to rest and eat before taking a seat on one of the pews next to Chuck Grant, and leaned forward to put his chin on top of his folded arms as they rested on the back of the row in front of him.

Behind him, Babe and Doc Roe were curled up together. Roe was gently running his fingers through Babe’s hair, watching over him as he dozed.

Babe had his head tucked under Roe’s chin with his arms wrapped protectively around Roe’s body as if he was shielding him, reminding him that he was safe.

Liebgott was glad.

As the choir sang, Liebgott closed his eyes in hopes of finally getting some sleep. But no matter how hard he tried, even though he was warm and safe and there was food in his belly, even though he was exhausted, he wasn’t able to.  
When he opened his eyes again he found Speirs sitting next to him, but he was too tired to do more than blink slowly at him before trying to sit up to show respect.  
“At ease, Corporal,” Speirs told him, in a calm but caring tone, “I don’t think anyone here would blame you for wanting to rest for a while, least of all me.” he turned to face him, “It’s Liebgott, right?”  
Liebgott nodded and gave him a small, tired smile, “It is. And thank you, sir, not just for that but for Foy too. Don’t think I got the chance to thank you yet.”

Speirs huffed a small laugh and shook his head, “Don’t thank me, Liebgott, thank Winters. He’s the one who sent me out there to replace Dike,”

Liebgott’s heart swelled up with adoration, “He’s a good man, sir, a good leader. When Dike replaced him, well…” he paused to carefully pick his words, “It was an adjustment. Forgive me for speaking like this about an officer, sir, but he was just… Terrible.” Liebgott sighed, relieved to finally be able to say what he’d been feeling for so long.

Speirs gave him a nod to continue, a curious look on his face.

“He was… He was never _there_ , sir. Even now none of us have a clue where the hell he’d go, and when he was there all he did was hide.”

Liebgott paused again, rubbing a hand down his face at the memory, “But I think it was the worst for Sergeant Lipton,” Liebgott closed his eyes as he remembered how Dike all but tore Lipton apart, snubbing him day after day and leaving him with no choice but to shoulder more burdens than one man could possibly bare.

“Lieutenant Dike… He didn’t treat him good, sir. All the stuff Lieutenant Dike put us through was ten times worse for Lip, and honestly I don’t know where we’d be without him.”

He looked over at Speirs, hoping to gage his reaction, but what he was met with surprised him a bit.

Speirs’ face remained relatively calm as he stared at the back of the pew in front of them, but inside his eyes was a whole tangle of emotions: at first all Liebgott could see was anger and disappointment, but looking deeper there was concern. Looking down, he could see that both of Speirs’ fists were clenched tight as they rested on his lap.

Before the pause lasted too long, Speirs turned back to him, “You are a company of tough men, of good men. And you didn’t deserve that kind of “leadership”, if you could even call it that.” Speirs scoffed, his voice remained even but had a new stone-coldness to it that seemed almost protective.

Liebgott felt happy to see a bit of the softer side of his new CO, a pit bull of a man who just seemed larger than life for as long as he’d known about him. And he felt nothing but respect.

It was then that Lipton finally walked into the chapel, looking dead on his feet just like the rest of them and as soon as Speirs noticed him, he stood up a little too fast. Liebgott withheld a chuckle as Speirs bid him a quick goodbye and strode over to Lipton.

Now that was interesting, Liebgott thought to himself, watching as Speirs talked to Lipton and noticed that there was a new look on the CO’s face that he’d not seen before.  
The way Speirs looked at Lipton in the warm candle light was tender and warm, pure adoration.

Liebgott turned his attention back to the choir, not wanting to seem as if he was staring, and instead strained his ears to hear what they were saying. The only part he managed to catch was at a rest between hymns, when Speirs said in one of the most gentle voices that Liebgott had ever heard someone use, _“Hell, it was you, First Sergeant.”_

Liebgott closed his eyes and smiled, welling up in pride and thinking of what a pair those two made.

His mind wandered to dark curls and bright eyes. Liebgott still hadn’t asked after Webster, mainly because he was afraid of what he would hear.

He couldn’t figure out what would hurt worse: if Webster had recovered and really never made any attempt to rejoin them, or if something actually did happen to him at the hospital.

Part of Liebgott was still angry, wanting to blame Webster for not being with them through Bastogne, through Foy. But another part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to go through that, to suffer in the snow like they did.

But he could imagine him here now, sitting in the chapel and writing in his journal under the golden light. Liebgott never thought he would miss the sound of Webster scribbling away in that little book of his whenever they had time to rest.

But that night he found himself keeping his eyes closed and letting himself imagine the sound of Webster’s pencil scratching out words onto paper was coming from the empty space beside him, and he ached.


	6. Chapter 6

Easy Company finally caught a break and moved back from the front line. Apparently they were going to be taken to Hagenau, France, where they would have access to beds, meals, and blessed  _ showers.  _

Apparently the 101st had made it into the papers back home, they were dubbed ‘The Battered Bastards of Bastogne’ and being hailed as heroes. 

The only problem was that they didn’t  _ feel _ like heroes. Everywhere they went, they received looks and sometimes even words of sympathy from the men of other divisions who’d heard of the losses they’d taken in Belgium. 

They weren’t heroes, they were a group of tired, sad men who were sick of this damned war and just wanted to go home. 

Liebgott sat in the back of the truck with the rest of his platoon, if you could call a handful of men and their Sergeant a platoon. 

After losing Buck, the company was short-handed on officers. Even after Lipton (who was semi out of commission after catching pneumonia and currently being mother-henned by Speirs) had received his battlefield commission, there simply weren’t enough officers to have one per platoon. And after everything that happened in Bastogne, the men were extremely wary of any new leadership (with the exception of Speirs, who had done more than enough to earn Easy Company’s respect) and were reluctant to follow anyone who wasn’t a Toccoa man. So for the time being, Malarkey was the Sergeant in charge of their platoon. There were even rumors that he would be getting a battlefield commission himself. 

Liebgott watched Malarkey from his seat beside Babe, and the first word that came to mind to describe him was  _ exhausted. _ Even from where Liebgott was sitting, he could see the dark bags under his Sergeant’s eyes as he stood at the back of the truck, leaning precariously on the railings. At this point, he couldn’t really imagine Malarkey jumping for joy for a battlefield commission. In fact, Liebgott didn’t think Malarkey had slept a wink since Muck and Penkala were hauled off to the aid station kicking and screaming. There hadn’t been any news about them since. 

Liebgott sighed and thought about Easy’s next assignment. They were going to a small French town that was divided by a river; one side was occupied by allied forces, the other side was occupied by German forces. He didn’t quite know why, but he had a bad feeling about this.

Liebgott sighed. He pushed those thoughts away and looked up at the sky, flicking his lighter on and off in annoyance. The weather in this part of France was cold and dreary, a perpetual drizzle had made the roads into creeks and turned fields into lakes. All the slush and muck they had to wade through made Liebgott unsure if he preferred this over the snow… 

That was a lie. Anything would be better than Bastogne. 

Liebgott was so lost in his internal turmoil over France’s atrocious weather that he didn’t even register the sound of boots in the mud making their way over to the truck, not until he heard a voice he’d thought he’d never hear again.

“Hey guys!” the voice called out. 

Finally looking up, Liebgott found none other than David Webster standing before him once again, bright eyed, clean shaven, and smiling at him like he hadn’t been gone for the last few months.

“Some Lieutenant told me to report to 2nd,” he told them, 

For a moment, Liebgott thought he was dreaming. It  _ had _ to be a dream, right? Or at the very least some kind of sick joke. Liebgott eyed Webster as he pointedly overlooked him, instead turning to Jackson who was sat across from him and asking about this and that.

That stung a bit, Liebgott had to admit. Of course he hadn’t expected a tearful reunion; hell, he hadn’t really expected a reunion at all, but Webster barely spared him a glance.

Jackson filled him in about Malarkey being in charge for the time being, which surprised Webster, “What, no officers?” he asked.

Out of spite Liebgott interjected, “Guess you didn’t hear,” he said with a bit of a sneer. 

Webster’s attention finally turned to him, curiosity written all over his face, “No, what’s that?” 

Webster hadn’t changed, in Liebgott’s opinion, not really. He still looked around with those big baby blues, like he was trying to take it all in at once. Webster had this thing where he always seemed as if he was seeing everything around him for the very first time, and he acted like that no matter where he was. If you didn’t know the guy, it would be easy to think he was just very lost at all times.

Liebgott snapped out of it quick enough to answer him, “They’re making Malarkey a Lieutenant,” he told him, purposely avoiding Webster’s gaze and instead looking back out over the line of trucks behind them, “He’s on the fast track now.”

Webster’s face brightened as he nodded and gave his congratulations to Malarkey, who wasn’t even listening, before tossing his pack up and climbing into the truck. It was just Liebgott’s luck that Jackson scooted over, so now Webster was going to be sat directly across from him.

But he didn’t even get the chance to sit before the truck started picking up speed, causing him to lose his balance. Instinctively, Liebgott’s arm shot out and tightly grabbed ahold of the front of Webster’s uniform, pulling him back in quickly before the dumbass fell out off the back of the truck. 

Liebgott didn’t even notice that he was still holding on to him until Webster, who was now safely seated, gently placed a gloved hand over his, “Um… Lieb? You can let go now.” he said in a reassuring tone, his face a little flushed with embarrassment after almost falling into the mud.

The realization struck Liebgott like a small bolt of lightning and he jerked his hand away a bit harder than he meant to. 

Webster, instead of looking hurt, just gave him that dumb smile that made Liebgott go a little weak in the knees. 

Thank God he was sitting. 

Looking away again, he decided to finally bring up the elephant in the room.

“So,” he started, “Must’ve liked that hospital ‘cause, you know, we left Holland four months ago.” Liebgott turned back to Webster, making sure to let some of that anger show as he met the other’s eyes.

Webster looked a bit caught off guard at Liebgott’s comment, but bounced back with an answer, “Ah, well, there were some… Complications, that lengthened my stay in the hospital.” he told him with a sheepish smile on his face, “But I came to find you guys as soon as I could, though.”

Liebgott met eyes with Babe, as if silently saying  _ “Can you believe this guy?” _

He didn’t know what Webster meant by ‘complications’ but since he didn’t appear to be permanently disfigured or even limping for that matter, it must not have been that serious. 

Maintaining an air of nonchalance, Liebgott decided to test him, “Well, I’m sure you tried to bust out and help us in Bastogne, Web.” 

Webster gave him a strange look, “I don’t know how I would’ve done that. The place where I was, you couldn’t-”

Liebgott’s temper flared a little as he cut him off, “Hm, that’s funny,” he said, a bit of passive aggression leaking into his voice, “Cause Popeye found a way. And so did Moe Alley, right?” he turned to Babe for confirmation, “Back in Holland?” Babe silently nodded, not really wanting to die on this particular hill, and Liebgott continued, “And Guarnere, and-”

This time Webster cut him off, “Yeah, where  _ is _ Guarnere?” he asked innocently, looking around the truck for any sign of their other Philly boy, “He still your Platoon Sergeant?”

Liebgott looked at Malarkey, and saw that he had his fists balled up and eyes shut tight, as if he was in pain.

But before he could say anything, Jackson spoke up with a curt answer, “No. He got hit.”

And with that, they arrived at their destination and were quickly commanded to exit the trucks to move out.

Liebgott gladly hopped out and started walking ahead of the others. Behind him he could hear Babe start explaining to Webster what had happened to Guarnere.

That just pissed him off more, to know that Webster didn’t even try to come back to them when they needed him most and then had the gall to ask where everyone was like he couldn’t put two and two together. Even the guys from the other divisions had the common decency not to ask shit like that. 

He chanced a glance back at Webster, who had just been told that Wild Bill Guarnere had his leg blown off, and his heart twinged at the sight.

Webster was just left standing there, mouth still hanging slightly open in shock as the other troops moved quickly past him. He looked like he’d just taken a punch to the gut, and he met Liebgott’s eyes looking absolutely  _ devastated. _

He couldn’t handle seeing that look on Webster- not right now, not so soon after seeing him again after all that time, after everything that happened. Liebgott turned back around and kept walking to the area where their platoon had been assigned.

Liebgott really shouldn’t have been surprised to see that he and Webster would be rooming together, they were in the same platoon after all. And yet, here he was, surprised to see Webster walk into the room that they would all share and sling his pack on the bunk above his. He didn’t come alone either, there was some fresh faced Lieutenant trailing behind him that didn’t even look old enough to buy a beer, much less lead men. Great.

Liebgott decided that he might as well take this time to make a pot of coffee for himself and the boys, he had a feeling that things were going to get lively today.

Webster introduced the boy to Malarkey as Lieutenant Jones, a West Pointer who had just been assigned to their platoon. Liebgott guessed that he and Webster must’ve crossed paths at CP when he went to check in with the officers.

Their new Lieutenant tried to put on an air of authority while talking with Malarkey, but it was painstakingly obvious the kid was scared stiff. Malarkey, of course, saw this as an opportunity to mess with him and deviously took it; Liebgott was pretty sure this was the most fun the Sergeant had in months. 

But while Liebgott was sipping his coffee, he overheard the kid say something to Malarkey about a patrol, something about which struck him as odd, but the two moved to the other end of the room to discuss it further. So, Liebgott took matters into his own hands.

“Hey, Web,” he walked over and guided a confused Webster towards the bunks with the rest of the men. 

“Tell me what you know about this patrol.” Liebgott asked, once they were all settled.

At first Webster was hesitant to give up any details about this “patrol”, but after some prodding he finally gave in.

He told Liebgott that there was to be a special patrol that night, that they were to go across the river and take German prisoners, most likely to get intel. The three who would be going from their platoon were Babe, Ramirez, and McClung, who were understandably upset with the whole situation.

Just as the kid had returned from being messed with by Malarkey to announce who would be going on this ominous patrol, they started getting hit with German artillery.

Liebgott and most of the other guys were used to it, and quickly grabbed their equipment and headed to the basement.

But for some reason Webster was just standing there wide eyed, watching the other men grab their things and run like he was trying to figure out what to do. Without thinking, Liebgott just grabbed Webster by the uniform again and practically dragged him down to the basement. On the way down Liebgott, Malarkey, and the rest of the men had started whooping and laughing like it was some kind of race; Jones and Webster looked at them like they’d lost their minds. 

And at this point, maybe they had.

Upon reaching the basement Liebgott slid under a table, pulling Webster under with him. He looked over and saw Jackson had poor Lt. Jones, who was as red as a tomato, pulled close to him and laughed, tucking Webster in close as well as the artillery continued to fall. 

But as soon as he did that, it was like the Earth stopped spinning, everything around them coming to a grinding halt the moment he had Webster in his arms and smelled that Old Spice aftershave. 

In that instant he was slammed months back in time, back to Bastogne and Foy. All those nights sitting in his foxhole, alone in the dark and the snow. All that time thinking of...

God.  _ God.  _

He gave in- finally holding Webster like he’d wanted to all those months.

Liebgott sat in that limbo for what felt like ages, not even hearing the explosions anymore. He just kept holding Webster to him, so many emotions hitting him at once that he had to blink back tears. 

At least he remembered to let go this time. 


	7. Chapter 7

Hot water. Liebgott didn’t think there was ever anything more divine. 

He honestly could’ve cried when he heard that they would  _ finally _ be able to take showers, and he was confident that there wasn’t a single thing that could ruin the mood he was in as he strode down to where they’d set up the showers.

“I’m leading this patrol,” Malarkey told them, “CO wants Grant, Liebgott, Wynn, Jackson, Shifty, and Webster.”

Son of a bitch.

“Jesus.” Liebgott said instead.

Roy Cobb spoke up from behind him, “They want anyone from 1st?” 

It was a fair question, but everyone knew the answer.

“No.” Malarkey told him, looking very tired.

“Well shit, is there anyone they  _ don’t _ want from 2nd?” Liebgott asked exasperatedly, “Jesus Christ.”

It seemed like it was always 2nd platoon that got the shit end of the stick, like it was always them losing men. Liebgott was tired of it. He was tired of all of it. 

And they were even making Malarkey lead it, the man who had been on every mission since D-Day. Where was the justice?

Liebgott sighed and glanced at Webster who, even after a good shelling, remained basically immaculate. He thought of his own uniform which was stained with soot and mud, his scruffy face, and dirty hair and suddenly felt very self conscious standing next to Webster. 

Liebgott shifted uncomfortably, staring at Webster a bit longer than he meant to before briskly turning away, deciding that might as well stop overthinking and just take his damn shower.

After a lot of hot water, soap, and a shave, Liebgott felt a little better and went with Webster and Jones to go harass Luz, who had been put in charge of supplies and rations. 

When they got there he saw Cobb and Martin practically on their knees begging Luz for something. Liebgott was confused at their behavior for a second until he laid eyes on the crate of Hershey's bars that Luz had been guarding, and then it all made sense.

“George!” he cried, practically draping himself over the table to try and reach the chocolate, “You had chocolate bars and you didn’t think to tell  _ me,  _ your old pal Liebgott?” he put on a hurt voice, batting his eyes and sticking out his bottom lip in an attempt to look pitiful.

Luz rolls his eyes and groans, “Listen, I didn’t tell you because I  _ knew _ you fuckin’ bafoons would try and get your dirty mits all over- HEY!” Luz slaps a bar of chocolate out of Cobb’s sneaky hands, “Wait your fuckin’ turn!”

“Is Captain Speirs here?” Jones timidly calls out over the noise, looking uncomfortable and a little left out.

Luz tried to wrestle a pack of cigarettes out of Martin’s iron grip, “He’s down by the river, sir- WEBSTER! PAWS OFF!” 

Webster just looked at him innocently, “I have no idea what you're talking about, Luz.” he said, slowly retracting his hand from the vicinity of the chocolate bars.

“Aw come on, Georgie!” Liebgott whines, “If you won’t give ‘em to us then who are they even for?”

“I don’t know but it’s not you, Lieb!” Luz says, crossing his arms and laughing.

Liebgott pretends to faint from shock, “Oh Luz, you  _ wound me!” _ he cries, leaning against Webster.

Luz gives him a very unimpressed look before swatting another influx of hands away from the chocolate bars. 

“Hey, give our fellow wounded brother a break will ya?” a voice calls out.

“Yeah, big mouth, give the kid a Hershey bar!” comes another.

The squabbling group collectively turned to see who spoke, and were met with a sight for sore eyes.

In the entryway of the supply room stood none other than Perconte and Penkala, looking a little worse for wear but happy to see them. 

“Oh my god,” Liebgott gasped in disbelief, “You gotta be shittin’ me, Penk… What are you doing here?” 

The last time he saw Penkala he was splayed out on the ground with blood coming out of his ears, covered with burns and weeping shrapnel wounds.

Penkala just laughed at the look on Liebgott’s face, “What’s wrong Liebgott? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!” he continued to chuckle as Martin made his way over to shake both of their hands, “I’m fine Lieb, don’t worry. It looked a helluva lot worse than it was. Skip took the brunt of most of it but he’ll be back on it soon enough.”

Liebgott laughed in amazement, “Fuck, Penk, have you seen Malarkey yet?”

Penkala just looked at his boots sheepishly and said nothing.

“Oh Alex Penkala you son of a bitch, why not?” Liebgott demanded, not in an unkind way.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise!” Penkala admitted, shifting his weight from foot to foot in embarrassment, “It’s his turn to cook tonight right? I’m gonna go and surprise him, ‘till then Luz is letting me hang out in here with him.” Liebgott turned to look at Luz, who was nonchalantly whistling some random show tune.

“No fucking way, you  _ planned _ this, George?” He was honestly blown away, he didn’t take Luz to be the type to orchestrate anything other than pranks.

Luz just shrugged, “I just thought Malark could use some cheering up is all, and who better to do it than one of his favorite people in the world, eh? Everyone say ‘Thank you Luz’.”

“Thank you Luz.” They all droned out, including Jones for some reason.

“And how are you feeling, Frank?” Martin asked, giving Perconte a firm handshake.

“Well as long you don’t slap my ass I’ll be fine,” he joked, rubbing his rear.

“Yeah, well no promises.” Martin threatened only half-jokingly.

Luz plucked two chocolate bars out of the crate, “Here! Have a Hershey’s you two.” he said, tossing them to Penkala and Perconte. The uproar was immediate.

“Hey how come they get fuckin’ chocolate bars?” Liebgott yelled over Cobb and Martin’s groans of protest and betrayal, not really serious. Luz just shrugged at them.

“Well, Liebgott, you go take a shot to the ass or live through a direct fuckin’ mortar hit, then you can come back and see me alright?” he mocked in a dry tone.   
“Well I sure as shit didn’t tell ‘em to!” Martin laughed, “I swear, you try and get these two a couple of tickets home and then the crazy bastards just come right back to this shit show!” 

“Well that’s not what we heard,” Penkala spoke up through a mouthful of chocolate, “Word is the krauts are finished.”

Liebgott moved to lean on the table holding the supplies, “Yeah well we’re about to find out; we gotta row across the fucking river to night to grab a few and ask ‘em in person.” he sighed at the very thought of the impending patrol.

Perconte and Penkala’s faces filled with dread and pity. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” Penkala said, “Damn. I’m sorry, guys.”

Liebgott just shrugged, what else could he do? “Yeah, well I wish was, Penk. Welcome back fellas.”

Then Luz straightened up suddenly and turned to some crates behind him, “Oh shit that reminds me, Web,” he called as he picked up a small but heavy-looking crate of various supplies, “I need you to run these over to OP for me, their askin’ me to blow up some house and Vest’s very busy takin’ stock ain’t ya, Vest?” Luz looked down at the poor Private he’d roped into being his assistant.

The kid was knelt on the ground in front of some more crates, squinting at a clipboard with a lot of words and even more numbers on it. 

“Uh… Yes, sir…” he said slowly, not really registering what had just been said to him and definitely not understanding anything on the paper in front of him.

“See? I only keep hard-working men here, boys.” Luz gloated proudly, turning and holding out the crate to Webster, who was too preoccupied staring at Vest with a puzzled expression, “Any day now, Web.”

Liebgott watched as Webster snapped out of it and took the crate, holding it along with all the heavy supplies inside with ease. The sleeves of their uniforms were wide in order to accomodate layers in cold weather, so Liebgott couldn’t tell if Webster was actually packing heat under there.

Before he even realized it, he was reaching out to squeeze Webster’s bicep. 

Webster turned to him and arched his eyebrow in question, “Can I help you?” 

Liebgott scrambled for something to say, ultimately deciding to play it cool.

“You been working out?” Liebgott asked him with a sly grin before letting go and mentally kicking himself.

Touching Webster seemed to be a habit he’d developed ever since he came back. He wasn’t sure why he’d started doing it but he found himself simply unable to stop. 

Perhaps he subconsciously thought that Webster was some kind of mirage, an illusion that could just  _ disappear _ in a puff of smoke at any moment. So he just kept touching him, holding on to him to make sure that he was real and not going away again.

All of these feelings left Liebgott perplexed and frustrated. He was still upset with Webster, still angry over the fact that Webster didn’t come back to them for Bastogne, but more than anything he had  _ missed him. _ From the moment the truck carrying Webster to the aid station disappeared from his sight all those months ago, he’d felt something in his heart start to tug. And he was hesitant to think about what that tug could possibly mean.

Now that Webster was back after all that time Liebgott spent wrestling with those feelings, he just didn’t quite know how to act around him.

Liebgott kept looking at Webster as Luz continued tossing random packages into the crate he was patiently holding while Vest had seemingly given up on his task and was now telling a story of how a replacement lieutenant in Dog company got his foot blown off on a patrol. He could practically feel Jones start sweating behind him. 

He noticed that Webster was incredibly quiet, quieter than he’d ever been in all the time Liebgott had known him. That was probably his fault, seeing as neither he nor the rest of the men had exactly given him the warmest welcome back.

Webster had a strange way of disarming Liebgott, like he always knew how to catch him off guard and could even match him blow for blow in any argument they had. He made Liebgott feel  _ vulnerable _ , and that kind of scared him.

“Web, let’s get a move on!” Luz ordered, snapping Liebgott out of his thoughts, “Perco, Penk, you’re in charge!” he called out as he left the room, Webster and Jones following obediently behind him. 

So Liebgott, as well as Martin and Cobb, took advantage of Luz’s exit to nab a few chocolate bars, much to Perconte’s and Penkala’s distress.

He felt like they deserved some sweets for the evening ahead of them.


	8. Chapter 8

The briefing went… Well, it  _ went _ . 

Martin was now leading the patrol (Liebgott suspected Webster had something to do with this, considering that the Sergeant looked ready to kill him with his bare hands) instead of Malarkey, not only Vest but now Jones had also somehow weaseled his way onto the roster as an “observer” (Liebgott suspected Webster also had something to do with this), then Webster decided that it was suddenly a good time to be humble about his German skills, which didn’t go over well with the rest of the men who thought he was trying to get out of the mission. 

Now, after the meeting had finally concluded, Liebgott watched as Webster walked up to Martin, Winters, Speirs, and Jones and he could only hope that he wasn’t about to do something stupid. 

“Sir?” He heard him say, getting their attention.

“Yes?” Winters said, turning to him with a questioning look.

“It’s just… Liebgott and I, we both speak German,” Webster started, and right away Liebgott had a weird feeling about this and started walking over so he could hear the conversation better. Winters just motioned for Webster to continue.

“Well, you said that this mission would take fifteen men and there’s sixteen of us, including two translators.” Liebgott saw Webster pause to take a deep breath before continuing, “I’d like to ask if Liebgott could sit this one out, sir.”

Liebgott was speechless. He could hardly believe the words that had just come out of Webster’s mouth. 

Winters looked at Speirs, who considered it for a moment.

“Well, fine.” Speirs said, “Hey, Liebgott,” Liebgott halted in his tracks beside Webster, “You wanna sit this one out?”

Well, if he was being completely honest, not really. Something about this made him uneasy, but he’d always been told not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Yes, sir,” he told them with a smile before turning to Webster and giving him a wink, “Thanks buddy.” 

This time, Webster quirked a small smile in return.

Dinner that night went on as usual for the most part, Malarkey dishing out servings of beans from a dingy little pot and everyone hating it. But Liebgott knew what was coming, and he could barely stop fidgeting as he waited for the sound of boots coming down the basement stairs. All he hoped was that Malarkey wouldn’t be upset.

There was a creak on the stairs and Liebgott stood up to go make sure it was Penkala, walking over to the base of the steps and looking up. Penkala was coming down but looked a little nervous, so Liebgott just gave him a grin and motioned for him to come down.

“Hey Malark!” he called, and the Sergeant looked up from where he was serving Jackson another helping of food and Liebgott was just beaming at him, “We got a surprise for you!” 

Penkala reached the base of the stairs and his eyes met Malarkey’s, and they immediately weld up with tears as he said in nearly a whisper, “I’m back, Don.”

Malarkey dropped the pot he was holding, the sound of it hitting the floor as well as the welcoming yells of the men echoing around the room as he crossed it. He swept Penkala up in a crushing hug and began berating him in a tone full of love and happiness.

“You  _ idiot, _ ” he cried, “I couldn’t find anything about you and Skip after they took you away and I was so  _ scared _ -” Malarkey continued like that for a while, hugging and crying with Penkala before they eventually made their way out of the basement and into a vacant room in the house to catch up privately. 

And before any of them knew it, it was time for the patrol.

Liebgott watched anxiously from his position with his machine gun on the hill overlooking the river. His bad feeling from earlier still there, but so far things seemed to be running smoothly. 

The point of entry was on the opposite side of the house, so all he could do was watch tensely as the men headed around the back and out of his line of sight. It had been too dark to tell who was who.

The grenade went off and then there was the faint sounds of yelling from inside the house.

Right away there was stirring in the other houses as the Germans were beginning to catch wind of what was going on. Liebgott popped his knuckles and prepared himself for things to get ugly.

Then there was yelling outside, lots of it, and he couldn’t even tell whether it was their guys or the Germans. 

That’s when the fire fight broke out; it began with shooting, with mortar fire following soon after.

A couple beats later and he could finally see his men coming out from behind the house in a clumped group, larger than the one they’d gone in with. 

Liebgott hoped this meant that the prisoner-snatch had at the very least been successful.

But no one had blown the whistle yet, and something off. He strained his eyes to focus on the group making their way to the bank and saw one of the men carrying someone. 

Leibgott knew that no Easy company man would  _ ever  _ carry a German on their back like that, snatch-mission be damned. So could that mean… 

“Wounded…?” he asked himself in a whisper so quiet that the ammo man beside him didn’t even catch it.

Liebgott’s anxiety spiked. He couldn’t tell who he was- he couldn’t tell if it was  _ Web. _

He took a deep breath and tried to keep his focus, gripping his gun till his knuckles were white.

“Where’s the whistle?” his ammo man whispered to him. Liebgott shook his head, wishing he knew.

As the group of men got closer to the bank of the river, the voices became more clear. He could hear a voice- probably Martin’s- yelling for the men providing cover to get back to the bank as the enemy fire got more intense. 

Soon, it was to the point where it began to drown out the yells regardless of how close they were to the river. 

But then one of the men providing covering fire got hit. Liebgott could only watch in horror as the man folded like a chair, knocked to the ground from the force of the shot.

“Shit,  _ shit!” _ Liebgott cursed, loud enough to make his ammo man flinch “Jesus Christ blow the whistle for  _ fucks sake, _ blow the goddamn  _ whistle!” _

This was a small-scale mission, just a handful of guys all of which he  _ knew _ . And they were going to die for something like  _ this? _

He squinted, trying to make out who was on the ground but it was just so damn dark. But then the man on the ground started moving. 

He was trying to sit up, trying to stand. 

Liebgott frantically tried to see if anyone was going back for him, and saw another man who had lagged behind all the others. 

He couldn’t tell who this man was either, but he seemed to be rounding up the stragglers and providing covering fire so that they could catch up with the main group. He must’ve seen that there was a man down and turned back to get him.

But then Liebgott heard the sound of the whistle, and started firing. 

The familiar vibration of the machine gun wracked through his body, leaving him barely able to see anything that wasn’t directly down the sight of his gun. He couldn’t see what had become of the two soldiers, he couldn’t do anything except shoot.

The distress coursing through him was as potent as snake venom but if he didn’t do his job it could mean putting even more lives at risk, so he had no choice but to focus on suppressing enemy fire.

The men made it across, and eventually he received the signal to cease fire. The first thing he did was scan the ground on the other side of the river where he’d last seen the two men.

There was nothing. Liebgott sighed in relief, shaking his head to try and relieve the ringing in his ears.

But when it cleared up and he could hear again, Liebgott felt his heart drop. 

The first thing he heard was the voice of Johnny Martin running through the row of houses they were occupying, screaming,  _ “WE GOT MULTIPLE WOUNDED OVER HERE AND WE NEED A FUCKING MEDIC!” _


	9. Chapter 9

Liebgott had never run so fast in his life. He tore down the hill in record time and followed all the yelling to the basement of the closest house, pushing past the group of men loitering in the doorway.

“Let me through, let me through!” Liebgott growled, shoving people out of the way and into the room where he was met with pure chaos.

The room was filled with men and all around him was screaming. The first thing that caught his eye was a commotion in the back of the room. 

It was Jones and Popeye, trying to get ahold of Vest. The kid was waving his side arm around, screaming and crying as the two tried to pull him off of a couple terrified Germans who were cowering what looked to be a closet nook. Jones was still covered in blood, suggesting that he was the one he saw carrying the wounded man.

Speaking of wounded men, he took another sweep around the room trying to do a headcount and found all but three men accounted for. His heart sank again as renewed fear rushed through him.

Liebgott could see that there were tables pushed together near the middle of the room, what lay on them was barely visible due to a swarm of men and bloody scarves. 

His heart sank even further when he got closer and saw that they were holding two wounded men.

The first one he saw was Jackson, though it took a second to recognize him. One of his eyes was basically a bloody soup in its socket and his throat was covered in blood. No wonder Jones had been practically soaked in the stuff.   
“Jesus Christ…” Liebgott whispered. He reached out and grabbed the nearest man, which turned out to be Shifty, and asked him what happened to Jackson.

“God, Liebgott, he walked in on his own damn grenade- Hey hold him down!” Shifty broke away from Liebgott as Jackson started thrashing around and rushed to hold him down.

Liebgott felt helpless, unable to take his eyes off the struggling boy as he gurgled blood. 

Eventually he tore his eyes away from Jackon, only to see that the man on the tables next to him was Babe, who was clenching his teeth as Perconte, still dressed in his sleep clothes, poured sulfa into the bloody hole in his shoulder.

“Shit, Babe!” he shouted, rushing over and seizing his hand, “C’mon Babe, talk to me. What happened?” Liebgott supposed this was the man he saw get shot.

“Well Lieb,” Babe gritted out, “It appears I got shot.” 

Liebgott snorted, “No shit moron, what happened? Why didn’t you fall back when Martin told you to?”

Babe just cackled, “Well I thought maybe I could pick off a few Krauts before the war’s ov- FUCK, Frank!” he yelled as Perconte stabbed his arm with a morphine syrette, “Jesus Christ, I’m already wounded!” 

“Yeah, Yeah, I got your wounded right here, Babe.” Perconte joked, rolling his eyes as he pinned the now empty syrette onto his jacket. 

Suddenly, Martin burst through the door, “Everyone out of the way! We got Medics comin’ through!” he yelled, pushing the other men out of the way.

The first Medic in after Martin was Roe, who wore a thunderous look on his face as he glared at Babe for only a second before he made a beeline for Jackson.

Babe gulped, “Gene, I-”

“Save it, Edward, we’ll talk later.” Roe growled, not taking his eyes off Jackson as he examined him.

Liebgott stepped back and let out a low whistle, he hadn’t heard Roe use  _ that _ tone before.

The medics did their work and eventually had the men moved to the aid station on stretchers, both of them would live.

Liebgott let out a sigh, eyes searched around the room again but he still couldn’t find who he was looking for.

“Where’s Web?” he asked Perconte, who furrowed his brows as he looked around as well.

“That’s weird,” Perconte told him, eyes still scanning, “He  _ was _ here, he’s the one who carried Babe in.” 

That made him pause. The man who went back for Babe was Webster. 

Liebgott hung his head and massaged his temples, closing his eyes because he could already feel a migraine coming on. 

When he opened them he just sat there for a second, his gaze aimed at his boots. As he stared longer, he started noticing drops of blood on the ground that fell in a line leading towards the tables where the medics worked. 

At first Liebgott just assumed that they must’ve been from Babe or Jackson, but he noticed the small spots also headed away from the table, towards the stairs.

Webster.

Quietly, he moved back from the group and headed towards the base of the stairs. Once he got there he saw the dark droplets staining the wood of each step, some of them smeared into a boot print. 

Liebgott followed them up into the house and down a hallway until he came upon a closed door with a golden, flickering light leaking out from underneath. He could hear something moving around inside.

Opening the door without knocking, Liebgott was met with yet another sight he didn’t expect.

The abandoned bedroom was lit with candle light which illuminated Webster, on his knees and shirtless in front of a small standing mirror. He was holding what seemed to be an old knitting needle and seemed to be in the midst of using it to try and dig something out of a steadily bleeding hole in his side. He froze upon Liebgott’s entry, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Jesus, Web…” Liebgott murmured, slowly making his way over and kneeling in front of him.

“Don’t you dare call a medic, Lieb,” Webster threatened, fear and pain clearly present in his voice as he spoke through gritted teeth, “I’m not letting them take me away from Easy, not again.” Liebgott couldn’t help but stare worriedly at the wound, but dragged his gaze up to meet Webster’s. His eyes shone in the light, gleaming like burning embers.

“I’m not-  _ Shit,  _ Web, you need help-” he stumbled over his words trying to find the right thing to say. He met Webster’s eyes and reached out, closing his hand around the other man’s hand- the one holding the bloody knitting needle.

“You wanna know why I was in the hospital so long?” Webster yanked his hand away, “You wanna know why I couldn’t just fucking go AWOL and be there sooner, Lieb?” he stood up quick, wincing as he stressed his wound and hastily started unbuckling his belt, “I’ll show you, since you seem to wanna know so goddamn bad.” and without another word he dropped his pants.

Liebgott didn’t know what he expected, but God… It wasn’t  _ this. _

Webster stood in nothing but his skivvies, exposing a long, ugly scar running down the length of his thigh that almost reached his knee, interrupted halfway by a mass of scar tissue at the area of entry that had left an inward divot in his leg. 

“Web…” Liebgott whispered, for he didn’t know what else to say. No words or apologies could properly express what he felt.

“It got fucking  _ infected  _ and they had to cut my whole fucking leg open, it almost killed me, Lieb!” Webster yelled, “They had to move me to a different ward and  _ strap me to the bed _ for weeks because I kept trying to get out, I  _ tried  _ to get to Bastogne!” Big tears started welling up in his eyes as he pulled his pants back up and buckled up his belt.

Liebgott felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, and all he could do was stare at Webster.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything about you guys and as soon as I could walk right, I left; Hitched a ride up this way with some of the guys in the 104th.” Webster roughly wiped at his eyes, “And when I finally find Easy, you- you fucking-” He couldn’t even finish the sentence as more tears rolled out.

There were tears in Liebgott’s eyes as well as he moved closer to the man, “Web… Web I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-”

“You’re damn right you didn’t know!” Webster interrupted, raising his voice before softening it again, “I didn’t want you guys to think I was just making excuses, thought it would be better to just keep it to myself and try to prove myself instead.” He laughed dryly as he looked down at the new hole in his side, “And look where that got me.”

Liebgott had enough. He quickly reached over, repositioned the candle and looked at Webster squarely, “Listen to me, I know what you did and they-” He paused to point in the direction of the hallway, “know what you did. You saved Babe’s life out there,” He grabbed the knitting needle with purpose, “So for fucks sake, let me help you.” 

Webster stared at him for a second longer before sighing and lifting up his arms to expose the wound.

Liebgott got to work digging out the bullet, silence filling the space around them.

“I thought of you, you know,” Liebgott said after a while, “In Bastogne. In Foy.” 

Above him Webster scoffed, “Yeah, whatever you say, Lieb.”

“I’m serious, Web,” he said, still focused on his work. Webster winced as he found the bullet.

“Hey, don’t you hate me or something? Webster questioned through clenched teeth, “Why are you helping me?” 

The questions made Liebgott’s heart ache with regret.

“I don’t hate you, never have.” He told Webster, being more honest than he knew, “I was just fuckin’ angry, thought you left us high and dry out in Belguim.” He continued working the bullet out little by little, “We didn’t know what happened to you, none of us heard any news about you in the hospital, and when you came bouncing up to the truck looking just fine, we-  _ I  _ assumed the worst,” Liebgott sighed, “And I’m… I’m sorry for that…”

The bullet hit the floor with very little sound. Liebgott immediately pulled out his own aid kit to dress the wound when a hand gently came to rest on the top of his head.

“I missed you, Joe.” Webster murmured. 

Liebgott looked up from where he was placing a bandage with wide eyes. Webster was looking straight ahead, the look on his face was the same one that Doc Roe used to have in Bastogne.

“Every day in that ward was hell,” Webster continued, “The only thing that got me through it was the thought of arguing with you again, isn’t that the dumbest thing?” He chuckled weakly.

Liebgott thought back to Bastogne. It wasn’t dumb at all.

“I missed you too,” Liebgott admitted, looking back at his task, “When we were in Bastogne, there were times I was ready to do just about anything if it meant I could argue with you again.” He finished tying up the bandage and took a deep breath as Webster redid his shirt, “And not a day went by where I didn’t think about you.”

After admitting that, Liebgott was scared to look at Webster, but a hand on his shoulder encouraged him to look up anyways.

The shocked, scared look on Webster’s face made the tears start welling up in Liebgott’s eyes again.

“Fuck, Web,” Was all Liebgott could get out as those tears fell. He wrapped his arms around Webster and- being mindful of his wound- pulled him close.

“God, Lieb… I was so fucking scared I wouldn’t see you again,” Webster choked out, on the verge of tears himself.

Liebgott pulled away and cupped Webster’s face so gently, like he was scared he’d break, and he kissed him. He kissed his lips, his nose, his cheeks, everywhere he could reach, and Webster let him.

Every emotion he’d had since the day he saw that truck take Webster away flooded out and he just clung to him for dear life.

“We’re so fucking stupid,” Webster sobbed out quietly, one hand cupping Liebgott’s cheek while the other stroked his hair back out of his face, “I’m never leaving you again,  _ God, _ I missed you so much, Joe.” 

Webster was looking at him like he’d hung the moon and scattered the stars across the sky. It was a look that left Liebgott breathless.

“You better fucking not, Web, I’m holdin’ you to it,” Liebgott laughed through his tears, “You already know I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Webster laughed again, pressing his forehead against Liebgott’s and closing his eyes.

“Of course.” 


	10. Epilogue: Eagle's Nest

The Eagle’s nest was a disappointment in only one way: Hitler wasn’t there for any of them to kill. Apparently the bastard already pussed out and died somewhere else leaving the Germans basically finished, so Easy took this time to relax in Austria. 

Jackson was left half blind after Hagenau and sent home, but Skip Muck and Babe had rejoined them just in time to enjoy all the spoils to be found in that giant estate. 

Liebgott watched from his spot next to Webster under a tall tree on the lawn as Roe fussed over Babe and his arm again. The kid had gone AWOL with Muck, and now he had to sit there and pretend like he didn’t love all that extra love and attention from his sweetheart.

He turned his attention to the beautiful lake just in time to see Malarkey and Penkala shove Muck off the pier, screaming, “Swim across _this!”_ And running away as Skip began to wade out of the water with a positively devious look, ready to return the favor.

Malarkey looked better than Liebgott had ever seen him; the tired, dead-on-his-feet-look from Hagenau was gone and he’d come alive again. The trio had even found another motorcycle to joyride around in. Liebgott was so glad, because if anyone deserved this, it was Malarkey

Over on the deck, Speirs and Lipton only had eyes for each other. They both sat in the warm morning sun, reading, sharing a lemonade, and enjoying each other's company quietly. Every so often one would look up and lovingly press a kiss to the other’s temple. Even from a distance Liebgott could see the shine of the desperately expensive watch sitting on Lipton’s wrist, no doubt a gift from Speirs.

Winters and Nixon were currently nowhere to be found. But Liebgott knew that earlier that morning Winters brought Nixon to Goring’s personal alcohol reserve, which he’d held as a surprise just for him. So God only knows what they were up to now. Hell, Liebgott was willing to bet money that Nixon jumped Winters right then and there.

Jones had decided to stick around, the kid was finally starting to loosen up and fit in after basically being adopted by Bull and Martin. He was almost adorable as he tentatively asked Babe about Jackson’s mail address.

Liebgott leaned his head on Webster’s shoulder, who was deeply enthralled in a book of German poetry that he’d found in the library.

“Anything interesting?” Liebgott asked, peaking at the pages.

“Nothing you’d be interested in, Flash Gordan,” Webster snorted, a fond smile adorning his face as he put an arm around Liebgott to pull him closer.

“Hey! I said that I love to read and I meant it!” Liebgott replied indignantly, “So tell me, David, what’s got you so pulled in?”

Webster shivered at the use of his real name and caved immediately. Liebgott smirked, it worked every time.

“Well, this is a love poem by Goethe,” He told him, “It’s called Ich Denke Dein.”

Liebgott shrugged, “I don’t know who the hell that is, but read it to me anyways.”

Webster laughed and shook his head, clearing his voice dramatically before asking, “English or German?”

Liebgott thought for a second, “English, I don’t want to think too hard this early in the morning.”

“It’s eleven,” Webster teased, Liebgott took it as a challenge.

“Well you’re the one who kept me up all night; you owe me, mister,” He said slyly, watching Webster flush as he gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Ah, where the hell would I be without you to keep me humble?” Webster chuckled and started reading the poem.

Liebgott watched as everything slowly slipped into a golden haze. Eventually he nodded off, lulled by the gentle breeze, the sound of Webster’s voice, and the comforting smell of Old Spice aftershave.

And he was glad.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> EVERYONE SAY "THANK YOU SHY"


End file.
